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On our fourth day in Paris, we awoke early and prepared for our trip to . We had lunch reservations at 12:30 at Les Bouquinistes, a Guy Savoy Michelin star restaurant. It sits on a street corner across from the booksellers who line the banks of the Seine. I really have to get over my fear of photographing food so I can do it justice, instead of quickly snapping a shot before stuffing my face.

However, I do have a photo of yet another basket of the amazing bread that is ubiquitous in Paris. We were all alone in the restaurant for at least a half hour before others began sauntering in. This was one of my favorite meals, although since I have not written in so long, I have completely forgotten what it was I ate. I just recall, over the net few days, Robert and I saying, “That was the best so far.”

After lunch, we headed for St. Chapelle, where we would meet our friends, Dave and Amy, who traveled in from the London area to join us for the weekend. Squeeee! Robert and I had museum passes – which we highly recommend – but instead waited in line with our friends so we could visit and discuss our plans for the evening. Plans that included a dinner cruise down the Seine. Or maybe up the Seine. Or both really.

Robert and I are absolutely gaga over St. Chapelle. The last time we were in Paris, it was still under renovation. This day, it was clear of scaffolding and the stain glass was magnificent. St. Chapelle is a royal chapel, Gothic style, within the medieval Palais de la Cité, the residence of the Kings of France until the 14th century. Arranged across 15 windows, each 15 meters high, the stained glass panes depict 1,113 scenes from the Old and New Testaments recounting the history of the world until the arrival of the relics in Paris.

Afterward, we stopped at a sidewalk cafe for an adult beverage, then made our way back to our hotel. Amy and Dave were housed across the street, which of course led to a large number of balcony photographs. I’m sure people in the other rooms both on our side and theirs wondered who the crazy people were.

Once properly dressed and thoroughly cleaned up, we were ready for the evening. We had reservations on the Bateaux Parisiens dinner cruise to celebrate Dave’s birthday. Robert and I had gone on the dinner cruise our previous trip to Paris and loved it. Except for that part where I actually got lost on the one story boat. Other than that, the food and drink had been quite good, and the scenery as you float down the Seine and watch the lights of the city and Eiffel Tower flicker to life is gorgeous. This time, we decided to splurge for the absolute front of the boat. You know, where the rich people hang out.

While a good idea in theory, in practice it didn’t quite pan out. As we sat visiting at our table, waiting for the boat to begin its journey down the river, we were growing quite warm. We kept fanning ourselves and saying, “Once we get moving, a breeze will help, I’m sure – and maybe that’s when they turn on the A/C.” That’s when we found out. The air conditioning was OUT in the front of the boat. Elsewhere it was working fine. Imagine our amusement. I must say we were all pretty worn out and tired of sticking to our seats and “glowing” by the time we docked at the end of the evening. It was a terrible shame, especially with the additional investment we made. No one came by to offer any sort of apology or to mention anything about a discount or partial refund. We took some photos early on, before we began to droop too badly.

I was so miserable I don’t recall much about the food. I just remember thinking instead of the Bateaux Parisien, we were apparently aboard the African Queen. The company, of course, was excellent. If you have to be trapped aboard a hot boat in the middle of the Seine, eating a heavy French dinner, Amy and Dave are the people to share that experience with for sure.

We had intentions of phoning and discussing with them the following day – or even after our return home, but ended up just letting it go. However, on the way off the boat, we may or may not have acquired a bottle or three of wine that made its way back to the hotel with us. So, we are apparently thieves. To that I will only say, “Prove it.”

The four of us took a cab back to our hotel and enjoyed our ill gotten goods, and perhaps a little vodka over ice which went down far too smoothly as we chatted and watched the shimmering lights of the Eiffel tower and the golden glow from the Arch de Triumph.

Day 5 awaits, with the catacombs, lunch at Le Select (where Picasso and Hemingway regularly hung out), and a drink at L’Hotel (Oscar Wilde’s old haunt. And possibly current haunt.)

Like this:

Have I mentioned my husband planned our trip and each day before we left the hotel, in addition to patching my heels with moleskin, I was asked, “Do you have the itinerary?”

Today’s itinerary would take us on the ten cent tour of Paris via bus 69. Bus 69 has no A/C and we still opted to take it, because Rick Steves said it’s an inexpensive way to see a lot of tourist destinations without taking cabs or the metro. Rick is made of sterner stuff than I, that’s for sure.

I was seriously miserable and frantically fanning myself with the itinerary. (What do ya’ know? It IS totally useful!) We’d almost get moving fast enough to feel a breeze through the barely open windows when the bus stopped again to do what buses do – let people off and on.

I will admit, driving through the narrow streets of the little neighborhoods was a different perspective than I’d experienced in the past via cabs. Unfortunately, I think our tour was less successful than Rick’s because we didn’t know where we were exactly and were having to refer to the book (via smart phone) to determine if we were passing anything of interest or not.

Robert took pity on me in the early afternoon and we hopped off to eat at a cafe on a busy street. When is doubt – feed and drink Ann. That’s our motto. Cafe D’arsenal was exactly what I needed. We took our time, ate croque monsieur and had a glass of rosé while watching the world go by on a lazy Friday.

Oops. Wait. Remember the yellow jacket from Day One? It found me again. Landing all over my plate and wine glass. Lazy time = over. We jumped back on the bus to reach our destination – Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

We fumbled with the trusty (cough) Rick Steves app after entering the cemetery. Quite a few other people were there obviously looking for Jim Morrison. I was so distracted by everything else I saw, namely tombs, open tombs, collapsed tombs, tombs with opens doors, tomb doors with so many cobwebs I didn’t stop having invisible spider heeby-jeebies for the next 6 hours – I didn’t care if we found Jim or not. I was more concerned about what might find us. Why were all these open? Had the inhabitants flown the coop? Robert and I couldn’t resist edging close to a large crack in one concrete structure and peering into it to see if there was anything to see. There wasn’t. Probably all for the best, as I would definitely not have been able to outrun anyone that day.

(Jim Morrison)

We made our way over to say hello to Oscar Wilde. I was sad to see they’d enclosed his tomb and cleaned the lipstick kisses off of it. (Although I’m sure the family having to pay to have it cleaned all the time was probably a pain.)

Back on the bus – and to our new favorite cafe – D’aresenal. It was nearly 5:00 on Friday evening so we made ourselves comfortable and had another glass of rosé. Or two. Then, for some reason, possibly because we scrunched together to open up an additional table for the host, he brought us our check and another glass each. Hiccup.

At this point we decided we were too worn out to go to the Louvre (which was open until 9:45 that night and the next item on the itinerary) and decided we’d better just get some dinner. We entered Chez Denise – a loud, crowded restaurant and bar and were squeezed in at the end of a long table. Here we experienced our first truly French waiter. We also learned that, unlike in the states, the customer DOES NOT always know best. Robert ordered beef jowl and I ordered cod. I took one bite of that cod and pushed the plate away. It was what I technically call, “Icky.” When the waiter eventually ran out of other people to serve, he returned and looked at my full plate with one raised eyebrow. Robert told him it wasn’t fresh.

The waiter said, “Yes. It’s fresh.”

“No. It is not,” Robert chuckled a bit.

“Yes it is,” Monsieur Waiter snapped. “Where are you from?”

“Texas,” Robert responded. I knew we’d just lost.

“Texas. Harrumph.”

Told you.

He whisked the plated fish away, still proclaiming its freshness. When our l’addition arrived the full price of the week-old cod was proudly displayed. He’s lucky I’d had those three glasses of relaxing, mellow rosé before coming to dinner. And those two glasses with dinner. I’m surprised I didn’t hug him. That would’ve been the final insult, I’m sure.

Day 4 (when Amy (the Countess Magnificent-Joy) & Dave join us for fun and games) AND possibly Day 5 up next!

In honor of Robert’s birthday – we overslept – surprise! Then we got carried away at the breakfast buffet in the hotel and ate too much before heading out to locate the Eiffel Tower, where we had a 1:00 lunch reservation at Le Jules Verne. We’d been to Le Jules Verne during our previous trip four years ago and it had been a highlight of the trip. At that time it was a two star Michelin restaurant. During our absence they had lost a star. We would soon know why.

The service and food were impeccable. I totally won the order war. Robert requested guinea fowl and I ordered lamb.

It looked as though we were going to have another perfect experience – until something happened. I can only assume the manager who had been present throughout the early part of our meal waved goodbye to his staff and left for the day because they suddenly forgot they were waiting on us, and instead every table in the restaurant was waiting on them.

Waiting for a refill of water. A refill of wine. A check. Anything.

We are familiar with lengthy meals and taking our time, but truly, service (or lack therof) was obviously how they’d lost that star. The staff hovered between the dining rooms, chatting with each other and ignoring their tables. It was a sour note on what had been such a promising start. A chorus of “l’addition!” rang out when one of the wait staff mistakenly wandered back into the dining room.

Once we paid the bill – or “ransom” as I called it, we descended and walked through the Champ de Mars toward the Musée de l’Armée.

If you have a chance to visit the Musee de l’Armée and it is more than 80 degrees outside, DON’T GO. Not kidding.

The museum itself is fascinating, especially the medieval weaponry and armor as far as I’m concerned, but we began to realize as we made our way chronologically through the various sections, that air conditioning was non-existent. There are no words for how miserable we were. Wait. Yes there are: Hot, sticky, sweaty, Sweet baby Jesus…

Much like the Germans, we rushed into WWI haphazardly and made straight for WWII heated, offended and destined for disappointment.

Eventually, we gave up trying to soak up the history and dragged ourselves toward the exit. The last stop of the day was the Dome de Invalides, where we sought Napolean’s tomb. Here is where my ignorance knew no bounds. We approached an archway to our right, where I began snapping photos of what I thought was the little guy’s tomb. It was impressive indeed.

Then we realized it wasn’t his. This is one of those times the ability to read French would be really handy. We noticed a good deal of people looking over a railing in the center of the room and made our way over. What did we see? A freaking ridiculously oversized “tomb.” Seriously. Talk about compensating!

Note: Napolean lies within six separate coffins. They are made of iron, mahogany, two of lead, ebony, and an outer one of red porphyry. Don’t ask me why.

After fooling around and taking photos of Robert with the gargantuan repository of Monsieur Bonaparte, we caught a cab back to the hotel, cleaned up, and strolled to a quaint neighborhood café near the market, L’Atelier Du Marché.

Here, we were having a lovely evening when in came a pack of screeching American women. Approximately six of them came in sounding like twice as many. The table behind us, with two men and a woman (all French) turned annoyed eyes on the group and one issued a few sharp, “shhh, shhhh, shhhhh” reprimand. Surprise! They didn’t hear – or care. We went from being able to talk quietly to each other over a relaxed meal to discussing how best to shut them up without bloodshed. We felt it necessary to apologize to the owner and our server on behalf of all Americans. They kindly accepted and assured us most guests were NOT like the ones that were currently spoiling everyone’s evening.

As we exited, Robert stopped at their table and stood staring at them all, shaking his head. I’m sure they missed the subtle hint that they were rude hyenas.

I’m going to try to blog each day of the trip to Paris and Versailles for my own sake as much as hopefully someone’s reading pleasure or at the very least, travel-tip assist. Let’s see if I can remember each day over the next week or two it will take me to think back and record. Ha! This should be interesting.

After planning for months and months (and years) by my husband Robert, we set out for our second trip to Paris and Versailles. The first leg was a flight from DFW to Chicago; the second, Chicago to Paris. Unlike our first trip four years ago, I found I had no time on the plane for blogging or reading. I have no idea what I did to take up all that time – unless it was eating. And drinking. And that five hour nap. Next thing I knew I was awakened by an announcement that we were less than 90 minutes away from landing. I quickly assessed my priorities and decided watching Pride & Prejudice and Zombies was numero uno.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t made it through more than maybe 45 minutes before I had to shut down and start actually trying to refresh myself in the horrible airplane bathroom. Side note: On the way home I’ve decided I’ll use bottled water to put my contacts in and will brush my teeth at my seat rather than enter that domain again. Seriously. Can a flight attendant put on a plastic glove and maybe just shove all the paper towels that are pouring out of the swinging trash door down into the trash for us all? Take a stick to it, I don’t care. I just know I’m not touching any of it. But I’m not being paid to ensure people’s comfort and well-being like a flight attendant might be. With regard to the lavatories, they’re more bystander than attendant.

Anywho…

From Charles de Gualle Airport we cabbed it to the Renaissance Arc de Triomphe Hotel. Our home for the next 5 nights. The lobby was too trendy for words, with uncomfortable looking chairs made from grocery carts. Or made to look like grocery carts. Because (Heads up!) grocery carts are totally hip. You heard it here first.

The equally trendy and attractive staff was friendly and polite, speaking enough English and us enough French to get by nicely. That means they were fluent and we were capable of saying yes, no and thank you, all with equal enthusiasm. We also seemed to acquire French accents when speaking English. “A” for effort, I suppose. By the end of the trip we were holding conversations with wait staff and salespeople in which we slipped in and out of saying “oui” and “yes” as though we were so bi-lingual we just never knew what language we might speak in. When all else failed, the poorly performed French accent, like Inspector Clouseau, served just as well. (We’re delusional.)
When the room was ready we put a few things up and walked down the Champs Elysees to Tuileries Garden. By the time we got there I had a blister on the back of each heel. So much for the walking boots. We made the decision I needed enough wine Now I know why I’ve worn the brown boots, not the black boots around Cardiff, London, Paris and Versailles over the past 5 years. Madden Girl boots. They were my best travel purchase ever.

We decided to try to numb my heel, or my self pity with wine and cheese so we sat in the garden and ate charcuterie at Cafe des Marronniers until we were delirious. Here began my ongoing relationship with a yellow jacket that stalked me the rest of our time in Paris and on to Versailles. But that’s another story.

As my heel was feeling a tad better and the yellow jacket was becoming more aggressive, we shuffled on to Musee de l’Orangerie because – Monet. The moment I walked into the first cycle of Water Lilies, I welled up. Like four years ago, I tried to get as close as my father would to examine every stroke. Which is why I was reprimanded by the guard. I responded with an enthusiastic, “Merci!”

After cabbing it back to the hotel, Robert went to Nicolas (the nearby wine store) while I put my feet up. We had dinner on the balcony looking at the Eiffel Tower and the Arc. (We’re on a first name basis now, the Arc de Triomphe and I.)

Robert can book an amazing hotel room. It’s his super power.

We toasted the first day of our vacation and then…

We slept. Soundly. After all, tomorrow’s itinerary was waiting. The Eiffel Tower and Le Jules Verne for lunch…

It’s been awhile since I wrote anything here. It was easier to find things to post about while going through my cancer and radiation treatments. After that, nothing really seemed worth writing down. I was still recuperating emotionally, I suppose, and feeling a need to have some space to myself. Even if that space was just in my head. But I think I’ve turned a corner. About six weeks ago, I opened the door to my closet and nearly curled up into a sad little ball. This was not the normal “I have nothing to wear” freak out; this was “If I have to put any of this on one more time – I’m going to step in front of a bus.”

My post surgery and radiation wardrobe consisted of leggings and tunic tops. Loose items that allowed me to avoid irritation of my radiation burns and lymph node scars. But suddenly, staring into my closet, I realized I was approaching the year anniversary of my stand off with cancer and I was tired of dressing like a withered, shapeless blob.

So, I reached into the part of my closet I hadn’t touched in a year and pulled out an actual dress. Stepping in front of the full length mirror before leaving for work, I felt a tiny bit like my old self.

The next day, I shoved the tunics aside again and grabbed another dress, praying it would fit. Somehow, it did. I’ve gained a little bit of weight over the past year. Talk about adding insult to injury… Stupid cancer. Anyway, I told Robert what was happening in my head, (which we usually try to avoid), and he instantly suggested I burn the tunics. Guess he was tired of them too.

Now, I’m on a mission. I’ve signed up for Stitch Fix and have a wonderful stylist who is nailing it every time. (Thanks, Nikki!) I’ve also received a couple of “bento boxes” from MM LaFleur. It appears I’m building a new wardrobe for the new me. (The new me hates actual shopping as much as the old me.)

Yes, I have to acknowledge I’m not the same. The fact it took a year for me to shake off the funk, or the blues, or the shock and awe of the spring and summer of 2015, is astonishing to me. I didn’t even realize how I’d changed. How my self confidence and self esteem had plummeted. When it started to come back, I didn’t even recognize it for what it was. Now I see that experimentation with false eyelashes for what it really was. It was ME trying to locate me again. A better me. With longer, thicker lashes, apparently.

The point is, after all these months of isolating, I am happy to report that my new self is sticking her toe into the water to see how normal life feels again.

I must say, it feels pretty good. (Just a little tight around the waist.)

Like this:

While waiting at the AT&T store the other day, I came across a website that has been more entertaining to me than Pinterest. You see, Pinterest is all this perfectly beautiful food, craft projects, closet organization, and lists of delightful and entertaining projects to do with your children over the weekend that include more than ten supplies you do not have on hand and will end with you feeling like a terrible parent. Who needs that? Nobody. What we need are gift ideas that don’t suck and that can be ordered online.

As I’ve been perusing my new addiction, fancy.com, I’ve come across some items I thought would either make GREAT Christmas gifts or stocking stuffers. In the interest of good deeds and the brotherhood of man, yadayadayada, I’m sharing the ideas I’ve found. They’re mostly very affordable and often are not alcohol related. (Gasp!)

Except this first one. This is a carry on cocktail kit, capable of making two delicious old-fashioneds.

Then there’s this – what guy doesn’t want a switchblade mustache comb? You can bet he won’t already have one, that’s for sure.

Selfie sticks are all the rage, but the next big thing? The bike selfie. This can’t possibly go wrong.

This is in honor of someone I know who apparently used to spend some time at work doing exactly this, only without the handy-dandy nap apparatus.

Know someone who’s artsy or a Warhol fan, or both?

Have a friend or family member who likes walking in the rain? Give them their own rainbow. Or color wheel. Whatever.

This heart shaped umbrella is adorable. Looks like a scene from a Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks movie. Yes, I’m old.

Goth coffee lover? Pirate pal? Try this spoon.

Okay, here’s another alcohol related gift. You know there had to be at least one more.

Personally, that glass is almost cool enough (no pun intended) to make me drink liquor straight like that. Almost.

Let’s just get the last wine-o gift out of the way. In my defense, it’s also coffee related.

Let’s say someone has had a few cocktails and is stumbling to the bathroom later that night, but doesn’t want to turn on that BRIGHT bathroom light. I give you the toilet light. The light also alerts the ladies to the potential for that horrible moment we’ve all experienced at some point in life. (Shiver.) Priceless.

I have no idea who to give these to, but I love them and you should too.

Everyone has that geek friend. Watch them go nuts for this. I thought it was a fancy belt buckle at first.

Just plain silliness? Yes, please. Pizza nails, anyone?

How about cupcake liners that tell your fortune?

And if you just give up and don’t purchase anything for your friends and family, distract them by wearing this.

Like this:

Well, I’m fast approaching my fourth week out of radiation. Still have some itchy skin, and some bizarre throbbing pain every now and then that I assume is a sign of continued healing. They said the radiation would keep affecting me for 2 weeks after we actually stopped, and it did. However, I was so anxious to return to a regular schedule, I might have not been as patient as I should have work-wise. As a result, by the end of the week, I’m beat. I keep swearing I’ll sleep all day on the weekend, but I seem to live in a sports bar, with all day college football games on Saturday so that’s not really happening. Even without the sporty-sports, I start getting antsy after 9:00AM and feel as though I’m wasting a perfectly good day.

Currently, everything feels surreal. Each day I hear about something that happened since May or June, when all this started, but I have almost no recollection of it. I feel as though I’ve gone through each day sleepwalking. Hopefully, I’ve been functioning somewhat, anyway. I know I was TRYING.

I have neglected to report an event from two months ago. I just couldn’t address it until now. To add insult to injury, our sweet Daisy doggen became ill suddenly and had to be put to sleep. Cancer strikes again. We STILL haven’t recovered from THAT emotional devastation. Maybe it’s multiplied by Robert’s and my lowered immunity to bad news and almost psychotic need to have SOMETHING be normal at this point.

During that dreadful day, when the chips were down, my friends responded like they’d been waiting for an opportunity to rush to the rescue. “The Duchess” and Tony W came to stay with Gracie, the basset we adopted so she and Daisy could be little old ladies together. So much for that genius plan that lasted all of 8 months. Robert, Austin and I stumbled, bleary-eyed and in a state of shock, into the vet clinic to say goodbye. By the time Daisy drifted to sleep with Robert reassuring her and all our hands on her, I thought none of us would be able to get up off the floor, maybe ever again.

We drove home saying things to try to make each other feel better, but it was a sniffly, teary ride. Austin was so supportive. I wish he hadn’t been home to go through that, but then again, I’m glad he was. Derek was in Missouri, so he didn’t get to say his goodbyes. But if all four of us had been on the floor weeping, it would have simply been too much to bear. By the time we returned home, I thought “the Duchess” had probably pet a hole in Grace, (to comfort her.) So, once in the safety of our living room, there were five of us with red, watery eyes and a dog who was wondering what the heck was wrong with us all and WHERE had we left her “sister.”

As a result of the glorious past… 5 months(??) I get really emotional. Not sure if that’s the medication, or if it’s the experience(s), but I really want to take some time to sit still and figure out what all has transpired. Punch drunk, I guess you’d call it.

Mostly, these days, I’m looking forward to a time when my eyes stop welling up, I’m looking forward to having energy, and I’m looking forward to the END of this year.

I’m hoping this doesn’t sound too negative. I’m also grateful for the support of family, friends, readers and visitors. Also, (most importantly) my Robert has been amazing, and wonderful and has had to deal with a lot of crap. So, if I haven’t said it enough, you rock, mister.

Inquiring minds want to know, so: The actual radiation therapy takes around 3 minutes. Not including getting undressed and dressed again. On Mondays, I visit with the doctor who asks how I’m doing and then tells me to keep applying aloe gel. Riveting, right? Those days the appointment lasts maybe 20 minutes tops, the most frightening part of it being when I step on the scale. The longest visits are the ones when we do simulation. We did that at the very beginning and again a little over a week ago.

During the last seven appointments, they focus on the actual tumor bed, so the simulation allows them to take measurements and X-rays to check they are targeting correctly.

In simulation, you lie down on a table with your “damn traitor” boob exposed so they can start turning you into a human connect-the-dots game again. This time there was a fun moment when the tech looked at my breast,then learned in for an even closer look and said, “Wow.”

Not certain if “wow” was good or bad, I squashed my immediate impulse to respond with a sarcastic, “Yes, they’re pretty spectacular, I KNOW.”

As it turns out, they were looking for the incision where the surgeon went in (twice) for the lumpectomies. Potential TMI coming up, so skip to next paragraph if you don’t want to get too personal, or if you are squeamish. The doc went in by making an incision just at the edge of the areola (wince). See, if you use professional language, it’s easier to deal with. Despite two procedures, it is nearly invisible. (As evidenced by the two tech faces bent extremely close to my um, scar area, exclaiming, “Wow. Who was your surgeon? Dr. Ganaraj? She’s amazing.”)

I couldn’t agree more.

Once THAT was established, measurements and X-rays began again. More lines being drawn on. This time with green instead of blue. Then to the CT scan to confirm the alignment. I left with three new clear tape circles covering green Xs and a renewed, unwelcome realization that this is some serious shit.

UPDATE: At this point I’ve had 4 treatments of the tumor bed. They have a special plate that is made just for me – to focus on the tumor bed specifically – as determined by the simulation session. They were telling me that some people end up with plates shaped like the US, or like Texas. (Not exactly the plate but the hole in the plate.) Apparently, in cases of mastectomy, often the hole in the plate is shaped like a penis. (How’s that for adding insult to injury?) We can’t decide what mine is shaped like. The tech said Woodstock’s head. (Snoopy’s buddy.) You decide. This is the view from lying on the table – so what I see.

Since this awesome fun time is nearly over, I took some other photos too – here is the massive machinery behind the door I never noticed before.

Like this:

Well, I disappeared for awhile into the cancer universe. Time flies when you’re having fun!

To catch up… After a month of recovery I met with the MEDICAL oncologist and the RADIATION oncologist. The radiation oncologist told me what my surgeon had. 6 weeks of radiation. Following that, according to my MEDICAL oncologist, I start a prescription I get to take for the next 5 years. The medicine removes the last traces of estrogen from my body. Did you know that your body produces estrogen – even if you have no ovaries? Or any other of that pesky girl stuff?? Why didn’t I know that? I must’ve missed that day in health class. Anyway, the medication will sop up any estrogen being produced, lest it feed another cancer cell or two. (My tumor was estrogen positive.) I’m not sure what my life will be like with no estrogen at all. Currently, it’s a roller coaster of hot flashes that feel as though I’m about to burst into flames interspersed with some heavy-duty mood swings. So the next 5 years should be AWESOME EXCITING.

When they prep you up for radiation, they do a simulation which involves lying on a table with your boob exposed to EVERYONE. While you lie there with one arm up over your head, they draw on you. There were also calipers involved, and measuring. It took about 45 minutes total. Afterwards, I was asked to stand up and look in the mirror. Imagine my surprise when I found my left side, from breast bone to under my arm, covered in marker. I looked like those graphics that show which part of the cow each cut of meat comes from. There were two spots – one on my chest and one under my arm where a piece of clear tape covered an X. Those need to stay in place throughout the 6 weeks of radiation.

Sadly, since my friend just bought a house with a pool, I was told those marker Xs mean no swimming. So much for my plan to swim laps for exercise. I asked about a tattoo so I could proceed with my plans, but was told the marks are better. Apparently, when in a dark room, aiming radiation “lasers” (I don’t know what they’re called) at you, the easier the target is to see, the better. They kind of put the fear of God in you when they say, “What you’re doing here for the next 6 weeks affects the rest of your life. So, you don’t want to take any chances.”

At the end of the third week of radiation, I started feeling pretty tired. On Friday I could barely keep my eyes open. This seems to be right on schedule for side effects according to the experts. The radiation target is also looking pretty red. Like a sunburn. Not a terrible sunburn, but definitely red. There’s occasional shooting pain – from the healing after the lumpectomy, but nothing really from the radiation. The hard part of all this is finding clothing that doesn’t rub against that irritated skin under your arm or on your breast, yet allows you to go to work without having a complaint filed against you with HR. Side boob is frowned upon in most places of work.

The good news is, we’re half way home! Oh, and the big marker lines are gone now, just the Xs remain. Woot!

Like this:

Picking up sort of where I left off with the Breast Case Scenario post.

I recovered over the weekend from the lumpectomy surgery and by Thursday of the following week, I had the results. There was one little troublesome spot on the edge of the tissue margin – like so close to the edge it could easily have been missed altogether – and it was going to have to come out. While in there, we would need to take some more tissue from several sides to make sure this spot was a loner. I scheduled the second surgery for the next week, and threw myself a couple of pity parties. Or maybe three. The thought of going in for yet another surgery (my third in a couple of months if you count the cardiac ablation), was daunting to say the least. Plus, the underarm incision for the lymph node removal was still so sore I was pretty miserable. Meh.

So, we once again made our way to the surgical center last week. Luckily, this version didn’t require a divining rod in my chest so the whole process was much easier. I was greeted by a couple of familiar faces. The anesthesiologist paused as he reviewed my paperwork, “Wait. You we here a week and a half ago?”

“Yes. I had so much fun I thought we’d do it again! YOLO.”

They labeled me to make sure they operated on the correct side, and I was totally out cold by the time they wheeled me in around 2:45 and was glued together again and in recovery within the hour. Everything went “splendidly” in doctor-speak. I was once again given a lovely tube top, pink this time, and sent home with an ice pack and a nice hydrocodone prescription.

(A bit droopy from surgery and a lovely pain pill ingested upon awakening. These people don’t fool around.)

I have been taking it pretty easy since. I decided after the recent emotional trauma to listen to the instructions in my cancer binder that says, “pamper yourself.” This is not a terribly familiar concept to me, so I’m trying it on for size. I’m pleased to say I did manage to sleep until 11:30 AM one of those post surgery days.

I returned to work for a half day today which turned into more of a 7/8 day.

Pamper. Fail.

But I did receive good news this afternoon. The tissue removed last week has been decreed ALL CLEAR. We are now ready to talk radiation. That conversation happens Monday. I guess the speed at which all this is moving is good, because there’s less time to focus on it and fret.

That’s all I know now, so be on the look out for pampering attempts and whatever comes next.

* Special thanks to my mother and Aunt Jan who have attempted to corner the market in comfortable, button up blouses. And to my mother-in-law for homemade pimento cheese.